


The Great Train Robbery

by Xela



Series: West [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, M/M, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xela/pseuds/Xela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Demon on a train, a fivefinger discount, and a man out of his depth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great Train Robbery

People have spoken of Sam and Dean Winchester in reverent whispers for their whole lives. The Winchester Brothers, they say, are good people. Intense. Kind you want on your side. Ruthless. Merciful. Outlaws. Godsends. Hunters. Thieves. Even the Injuns know them, but they're called by different names, filled with meaning. Names of Power.

Some call them Ahayuta-Achi, the Twin War Gods who serve the Sun. Some say they are touched by Brother Wolf, strong and courageous and fierce. Others say two Great Cats follow in their footsteps, the Panther and the Lion, Sun and Moon, Day and Night, Light and Dark. But in all the stories they come together, two-by-two, side-by-side, bound together by the nature's essential need for balance.

The truth is: they are all these things and more. They are protector, warrior, mortal, god. They are ruthless and kind by turns, good and evil depending on who tells their story. Sometimes they run with a gang, a ragtag infantry in an unofficial eternal war. Soldiers, comrades, followers: in the Winchester's influence, but not a part of it, because the brothers are solitary—utterly alone, always together.

The truth is: they will follow Evil and destroy it until it kills them.

The truth is: there are a few people who know them, people gifted with their trust: way stations, safe havens. Lovers who taste the passion that runs through their veins and spend the rest of their lives looking for its equal. 

Fewer still are those who understand that to know the Winchesters is to love them.

 

They hear whispers about a demon riding the train down to Texas. It leaves atrocities in its wake, entire towns left bloody and lifeless. Dean's ready to ride as soon as they hear of it, an itch deep under his skin telling him to go. Sam likes to take his time, gather information before they act, but today even he gets up before the sun.

They ride hard, their mounts lathered and panting, grateful when their masters swing aboard the moving train and leave them to their graze.

They know the rumors are truth as soon as they board the train, steaming down the tracks and trowing dark clouds of smoke into the air. The box car is filled with mangled bodies. Blood paints the walls and flies buzz lazily in the sunlight.

There are a few people left alive in the subsequent cars. Some children who look hollow and empty. A few women who shy away from the grimly silent men who stalk through the aisles. The occasional man tucked into corners, starting at any sound. There's no reason for this violence, no goal that Dean or Sam can see. Just death.

They approach a car with bars on the windows. The money car, where the valuables are stored. The door has been wrenched off and sits listless on its hinges. Dean can hear voices coming from inside. Sam sidles up beside him, grim and focused.

Dean kicks the door in the rest of the way; they're both armed with shortened shotguns and pistols each. There's a man inside the car facing down a demon. His hands shake, causing him to stutter over his latin as he tries to read from his bible. The priest—obvious by his dress—stutters over an exorcism ritual, the words unfamiliar and heavy on his tongue. 

“Da, Dómine...terrórem tuum s-super béstiam...quæ extérminat vineam tuae—tuam. Da, da fide—fidúciam s-s-servis...”

The priest's words render the demon helpless when he gets the incantation right; the demon snarls and strains against something invisible. When the man falters in his recitation the creatures growls, its eyes gleaming black, and the very floor beneath them quivers. Dean glances down and sees the edge of a protective symbol chalked on the wooden slats. Some sort of hoodoo, no doubt inscribed by a superstitious slave. Not anything Dean's seen before, but it's stopped the Beast long enough to save the priest's life and half a train of people.

“--servis tuis contra nequíssimum dracónem pugnáre fortíssime,” Sam takes over smoothly, firing a specially mixed shell of salt and herbs into the demon, “ne contémnat sperántes in te, et ne dicat, sicut in Pharaóne, qui jam dixit.” Dean hears a warning screech as the train's brakes kick in. Sam shifts his weight, but the priest remains flat-foot. Dean reaches out and wraps and arm around the stranger's waist, pulls him tight against Dean's body lest he goes flying. The man falls into Dean with a startled huff. He twists to look at Dean, who notes his eyes are very wide and very blue, right as the train pitches to a screeching halt. The demon flies against the far wall, cracking the wood.

Dean thinks the man's eyes look like the horizon.

“Deum non novi, nec Israël dimítto. Urgeat illum déxtera tua potens discédere a fámulo tuo N.” Sam finishes. “Amen.” The demon falls to the ground arches up, muscles of its stolen body straining. It opens its mouth in an inhuman scream and thick smoke pours from its mouth. Soon enough it's naught but a charred mark on the floorboards.

 

Dean props up his feet as his crew bustles around him. Three days hard riding takes it out of even the most hardened Hunter, and it feels nice to sit in a chair and prop his feet up on the table. He leans back and pull his hat down. It cuts down on his vision, but what he wants to see is sitting across from him and Sam's watching his back.

Dean studies his newest acquisition. He's close shaven and neat, though his lips have chapped in this heat. He's what the folks call clean cut. Hell, he's just plain clean, from his pressed clothes to his shiny hair. Dean's acutely aware of the thick layer of dust that clings to his own clothes, which are threadbare and trail-worn.

The man seems nervous, gaze darting from Sam to Dean to the men bustling around them. His gaze lingers on their guns, discomfort obvious in the way his eyes widen and his hands clench around the table's edge. Not from around here, then, or at least gone long enough to forget how no one goes anywhere unarmed. Not even the ladies. Probably from the East where people claim everything is tame and easy but really it's a complex web of rules and expectations.

Dean likes the West, these lawless, savage lands. The rules here are simple: you do what it takes to survive. That goes for food, shelter, women...men.

Women are scarce out here. It's a hard life, and it takes a certain kind of person to bring new life into harsh lands. Dean had been mightily confused on his first visit to the East. They'd once gone as far as Atlanta for a Hunt, tracking something fast and crafty towards the more populated areas. 

Whores are often the only women for miles in the West. Most men, when far afield from their 'civilized' roots, will take their pleasure where they find it without complaint. A few adhere to more traditional morays and spend most nights alone.

Dean had been shocked when the people of the East spoke of whores with such disdain. In hushed whispers and embarrassed flutters. With angry sneers and condemnation. Dean had known of towns that let an entire payroll line the pockets of thieves, yet rallied when a gang dared assault their whore. If you had to name the most influential person in a given settlement, everyone would undoubtably name the same woman.

Staring at the man in front of him, in dark cloth and God's collar, Dean wonders how he'll find the rules of this land. If he'll be amenable to them or elect to spend his nights alone. The man starts when Caleb drops something heavy, and Dean figures it's a moot point if he dies of fear first.

“You done good, Padre,” Dean allows, hoping to put the man at ease. Blue eyes turn to him, piercing in their intensity.

“I am not a Priest,” he says, strangely formal. Dean chalks it up to that East coast learnin'. “I am a pastor.”

“Well that's just about alright,” Dean murmurs, taking a closer look at him. Sam snorts, knowing what's on Dean's mind. Sam prefers his curves soft, though he's not adverse to a tumble with the closest willing thing when the mood strikes. Dean finds women, on the whole, far too much trouble.

“What are they doing?” their preacher asks, affronted. Dean glances up from where he's poking at a new hole in his pants. Looking around the car, he sees nothing amiss. Sam's cracked open a bottle of whisky; Ash is going through official correspondences; Caleb and Ethan are tossing bags of money out to Chris and Jim; Dean's just sitting here, taking a load off.

“Something ruffled your feathers there, Preach?” Sam asks, smiling wide so his dimples show. Dean kicks him in the shin, because he knows that smile. That's Sam baiting some mark into a fistfight or quickdraw.

“Does that money belong to you?” Preacher-man asks sternly. He's folded his arms on the table to emphasize his seriousness. Sam rolls his eyes and starts cleaning his gun. Preacher transfers his judgmental gaze to Dean. “Does it?”

Dean leans forward, till he's even with the other man. “You tell me. How much is your life worth?” The preacher's lips thin in disapproval. Dean has an urge to make it go away, to tell him they don't just take. They help out where the can, when they can. They're not thieves. Well, not _just_ thieves. But they gotta live too. “What's your name, anyways?”

Preacher blinks, looking shocked that they don't know. “Castiel,” he says, a blush staining his cheeks. Dean smiles, slow and inviting. _Castiel_ blushes deeper, meets Dean's eyes for a fleeting moment before glancing away. Sam smirks and bites his lip to keep from laughing. He wiggles his eyebrows at Dean suggestively, which earns him another kick in the shins.

“Castiel,” Dean repeats, rolling the name on his tongue. It's nice. The good Preacher might just fit in here after all.

**Author's Note:**

> [On LJ, if you prefer.](http://xela-fic.livejournal.com/2076.html#cutid5)


End file.
